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The White Hills could metaphorically be flower children, but of black flowers standing out against a purple and unhealthy sky, offering among many an amalgam of Stooges, Electric Wizard, Hawkwind, and Cream: theirs is music that pulses with psychedelia-garage, space rock, stoner, and krautrock with gothic and esoteric traits. Distorted voices, monolithic shockwave-like distortions and persistent jams into infinity are among the possible tickets for listening. Heads on Fire is a collection of songs where there is no shortage of heaps of riffs drowning in flames and crawling in rust among abrasive sounds: surely the swaying moments of ethereal relaxation and cosmic digressions in which this boulder evolves represent the right turn off to avoid the limit of endurance often present in such massive compositions.
Don't Be Afraid: twenty-six minutes of pulsations induced by a low-fire crescendo, an apparent oasis in this hypnotic excursion. The mass of this sonic mountain surely shifts the album's center of mass towards itself, trust the title.
An album of extreme music, a often unsettling journey of rough and obsessive psychedelia that unfortunately often leads to enigmatic races towards nothingness, but it can only deserve respect for the impact. It is certainly a challenging listen for those not accustomed to certain sounds, but I find it interesting in its own way in proposing real musical trips.
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